Support for 'The Douchebag'

sup, bra?

I’m sure you guys have seen those stupid commercials for the 4G phones on AT&T Wireless. The one where one unfortunate guy says, “Hey, did you hear it’s raining?” and some smug assholes with smartphones respond, “That’s so 4 seconds ago” as they whip out their hipster umbrellas for the impending rain. While I could have rant about my first world problem for only having a 3G phone, I was instead more angered about this degree of douchebaggery.

I’m no expert on the subject or its history, but I want to make the assumption that this current generation is probably the most douche-y of all of them. When I pondered about it, I thought we were perhaps tied with the Enlightenment. Yet, one glance at Wikipedia on the subject made me decide otherwise. The 21^st century is not the Age of Reason.  Suck it, John Locke and Voltaire…we want more than life, liberty, and property. I may not agree with what you say, but I don’t defend your the right to say it.  I will mock it. On my Blogger.

Despite my ardent desire to hold onto a life of simplicity by shopping at thrift stores and talking to strangers in supermarkets, I find myself strangely drawn to becoming a douchebag. Sure, I only own Apple products and I gel my hair, but I never had the overall mindset. I had stayed away from that attitude as long as possible until now.

What changed? Last night, I went out for beers and burgers at the Quarry House and one of my friends stated, “Just wait until I get more money, then I can be an even bigger douchebag”. Let’s dissect this for a second. One, he’s implying that he is already a douchebag. Does this mean it is an inherent personality trait? Two, does more money equal more douchebaggery? I started to wonder why this was something to aspire to until I realized the secret: douchebags are the happiest people on Earth.

Winston: Oh, you mean Schmidt? He was just dressing up like Santa.
Alvin: Then why isn't he wearing a shirt?
Winston: You know, we ask ourselves that question every single day.
Alvin: Is it because he's a d-bag? Mommy says he's a d-bag.

Think about it. Douchebags have the best stuff, wear the nicest clothes, and nail the hottest chicks. Douchebags are the immoral capitalists of the interpersonal relationship dynamic because they are constantly striving to make a profit at the expense of others. Fuck the proletariat class…it’s the bourgeois or bust. Douchebags don’t care who they hurt with their snide comments about why their computer/moisturizer/phone/restaurant/sweater is way better than yours. You’re a moron for even thinking that cable knit was a viable option. Don’t you feel happier for not picking your Target sweater now?

Here’s my new question—can girls be douchebags? I am reminded of the age-old contradiction when guys say they want to date a girl who is independent, but then they criticize a girl for being selfish when she makes more money than them. I can see how a ‘girl douchebag’ can also be described selfish or even worse, a bitch, because the gender paradigm in this country blows. Yet, if I want to be a douchebag, I will anticipate that people will think the worst of me. I will be trouncing on the downtrodden woman to inflate myself when we should all be a sisterhood. Is it worth spending more on a purse because that extra compliment will keep me warm at night? That’s when I discovered—being a girl douchebag means you can be just as terrible to men as you are to women. Problem solved! I can’t wait until I buy a better gun than my male friends.

My biggest self-complaint is that I never allow myself to stay content. I’ve quoted it once, but my favorite line of poetry “To stay is to be nowhere”. Douchebags are the most transient people and always strive for bigger and better things. Is that really such a bad thing? Sure, they might be dicks, but what’s the point in being complacent? Not only is the grass greener on the other side, it’s got a fucking slip and slide in the backyard. Oh, and the beer isn’t domestic swill. It’s import. Welcome to the best block party of your life (members only).

I don’t want to be excessively nasty and cruel, but from this point on, I might take on some of the Way of the Douchebag. I will not permit people to treat me like shit with their second-hand crap of problems. My newest mantra is “Stop wearing your wishbone where your backbone ought to be” (Elizabeth Gilbert). I may not possess the most cutting edge items on the market, but that doesn’t mean I won’t say the stuff I own isn’t the absolute best for me. And I matter. I’m worth it, and most importantly, so are you. It’s time to stop wishing and start doing. Now.

Put some pride back in being a douchebag. Get off your fucking dirty couch, stop watching your reruns, and go out for a spray tan. Or buy an expensive watch. Get that French manicure. Down a bottle of Dom.  Enjoy for that lap dance. Do something that makes you happy for you, and for once in a while, feel secretly better than everyone else. In the words of the great Tom Haverford and Donna from Parks and Recreation, ‘Treat yo’self’.

And for the love of God, don't lose your driving moccasins!

The “upsell” and the downfall of women

I know we’ve been bitching about it for centuries, but it’s really shitty being a woman. That childbirth thing notwithstanding, the most annoying part about being a chick is the challenge to constantly look good. I’m trying to be realistic here, because what I define as looking ‘good’ for me is really just basic hygiene for everyone else.

I don’t want to sell myself too short (although I am too short), but I’m a pretty filthy person. I remember to shower, but I am constantly spilling food and gasoline on myself. Bathing myself is really an exercise in futility. Again, I’m the reason why we can’t have nice things.

I know it’s not just me who is downright dirty and unkempt. There’s a very good reason why the Brawny man is sexy as hell--women use him to sop up the guacamole they dropped on their pants while watching Jeopardy (this doesn’t describe my Monday night one bit…). Brawny tells women that it’s okay to be a slob because let’s face it, some ruggedly handsome man in plaid with still love us. Sadly, he’s the one of only a few cleaners that love women back.

I feel the absolute worst about myself when I’m at a nail salon. Nail salons and beauty spas in general have the sole purpose of making women prettier, but when you’re there, you just feel awful. I don’t know any men who have been to, or would admit to going to a nail place, which is why I’m going to illuminate the experience to you. Besides the carcinogenic stench of acetone, nail salons also degrade your self esteem.

Last week, I was there for a manicure. I’m trying to stop biting my nails as one of my resolutions, so I figured I’d be less inclined to chew on formaldehyde I spent $15 to put on my fingers. I was treated to a small lecture about how disgusting my cuticle beds looked and how ragged my nails were. That’s just what I heard in English. I have no idea what else my manicurist said about me to her colleagues.

Nowhere else does a woman get such loathsome treatment. Think about it guys, what if you were told that your feet were ugly when you tried on shoes? Or, that your wrists were fat when you tried on watches? Wouldn’t you be less inclined to buy that watch? And yet, women are supposed to keep getting manicures?

Let’s talk about another grievance. I routinely get my eyebrows waxed because I’m too much of a pussy to pluck on my own. There is nothing more daunting than a total stranger peering inches from your face with a popsicle stick full of hot wax and a piece of fabric to rip it off just seconds. Just when it can’t get any worse, you hear the dreaded words “Upper lip wax?”

I hate this. All of my female friends have said that this has happened to them one time or the other. Half the time, it's not even a question. Just a stated fact. You’re at your most vulnerable, and then you are made aware that on top of a grotesque unibrow, you’re also told you are growing a mustache.

I was talking about this with my boss yesterday, and I compared it to the upsell that you see in other places. For instance, my friend John said that when he worked at a movie theatre, they would routinely try to sell you that large popcorn for just a quarter more. That’s an upsell. Like when you can Supersize at McDonalds or add a dollar to some charity at CVS. However, upsells for beauty shouldn’t also be the norm. If anything, I should be less inclined to buy something that makes me feel worse about myself when I have to buy it. At least with McDonalds, I feel worse after I buy it.

On the other (hairy) hand, maybe I’m supposed to be guilted into another purchase. After all, if I’m told I have mustache, wouldn’t I want to do anything in my power to get rid of it? Shouldn’t I be grateful for my cosmetic savior for pointing out that yes, my upper lip is darker than the rest of my face? Am I that dangerously close to looking like Ron Swanson?

I hate that people offer you more than you came in for, but I guess that is just a universal business model. I don’t feel bad when I supersize my McNuggets but somehow, being told that my sideburns are getting out of control is unforgivable. I just wish that manicurists and waxers everywhere would realize that even if they are getting business, it’s at the expense of making women feel like ugly pieces of shit. The upsell of removing hair has the downside of terrible feelings that are only assuaged after the wax burn has subsided an hour later.

And yes, I’m fully aware I’m growing a beard. But maybe, I'll wear it with pride! No more bullying at nail salons! Hirsut women of the world, unite! If we don't all die alone first. 

i could be frida for halloween. i just need the flower.

A sneak peak of the rough draft of the beer book.

Well, to prove to you all that I'm serious about my resolution to write more (and eventually get published), I decided to leak the prologue/preface to the beer book. It's not going to be called that, and since "Sharon's Auto-beer-ography" is kind of lame, I settled on a new title. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the opening pages of "100 Beers to Freedom". Yes, like the Sublime song you can listen to while you read http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QIuOLU_iKLA (please don't sue me Sublime, I mean nothing but love). Also, this is a rough draft. It can change entirely. It's pure shit. But the premise is me. I can't change that.

beer #100, but if you want to hear the whole story, you have to start with #1. that's right, it's like how i met your mother. just read the prologue as if i sound like bob saget. 

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They say that you always remember your first…anything. It’s like some sort of moment frozen in time that even Al Gore’s greenhouse gases can’t drill a hole into and melt the polar bears of memories. Memories are possessions that you share only with yourself and whoever was lucky to be there with you. True memories are forever. 

By some sort of divine irony, I remember exactly where I was when I had my first beer. It’s like the start of Forrest Gump. You know it's funny what a young woman recollects? 'Cause I don't remember bein' born. I don't recall what I got for my first Hanukkah and I don't know when I went on my first outdoor picnic. But I do remember the first time I drank my first beer. Granted, I don’t remember the second or probably the fifth that night, but I recall my first beer I finished.

I had just moved into an off-campus apartment. I was about two months past my 18^th birthday. I had the insurmountable weight of weightless freedom pressing heavily on my shoulders. Going to college is stressful because you don’t know what your first act of rebellion is going to be. Forget academics and getting a job. Your biggest concerns are: Maybe I’ll dye my hair purple. Maybe I’ll smoke weed. Maybe I’ll lose my virginity. Instead of these glorious pursuits, my descent into depravity came at the hands of a mini keg of Heineken.

You probably know what I’m talking about. Those small metal kegs of domestic beer that make once-varsity lacrosse players look like gods at parties. There probably weren’t more than 12 beers in that little tub of carbonation. Yet, here I was, still fragranced with the sweet suburban air of Connecticut and missing the presence of parental figures. They had just left in the SUV up 95 North, leaving me in this Maryland student apartment. I met a girl moving in at the same time with a similar story. We exchanged numbers and she called me that night, telling me that boys had moved in and they were throwing a party.

I wasn’t popular in high school. I was well liked, sure, but I wasn’t the type who went to the elusive hangouts to drink with the basketball team, score points on the softball field, or join the math honor society.  I was a quiet, respectable and genuine person. Needless to say, I wanted college to change that.  Well, at the very least, I wanted to stop being quiet. At the ‘party’, which consisted of my new friend Holly and three boys, the plastic cups came flying out at a speed that only a Vegas dealer can emulate. I’ve learned of this mysterious sport called beer pong, but only through teen movies and whispers exchanged that I overheard during pre-calculus. The premise seemed simple. Like all sports, get a small ball into an opening. Like mini golf, but the balls could bounce and there were less sand traps. Oh, and there was beer.

I was drafted immediately into the first round because I had tits. I paired with some guy who may or may not have been named Scott. I can’t remember. I wasn’t too bad, and sunk two cups within the first few rounds. When the mighty instruments of the beer sport soared magnificently from our opponent’s hand into our cup territory, and bounced of the rim into the middle row, the splash seemed loud to my virgin and sober ears. Almost like a large ice burg slamming into the Arctic Ocean due to those aforementioned greenhouse gases. I knew I had to drink it. Scott was hammered. Like the gentleman he was, he handed me the cup and the other team hollered ‘Drink up, bitch!’. 

I looked down at the golden brown liquid, sniffed gingerly and brought it to my mouth. The phrase ‘pounding a beer’ wouldn’t be part of my lexicon for another month. I sipped it tentatively and was surprised at its bland yet bread-like taste. I tried it again. It wasn’t pungent like bourbon or sharp like the Smirnoff I had started my night off with. I still didn’t like it, but I pretended to chug it while sipping it surreptitiously throughout the round. I vividly remember the phrase ‘This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be’ going through my head as the red Solo cup embraced my timid lips and reached completion five minutes later. Scott and I won the game, and we progressed onto the second game in the never-ending tournament that is beer pong. I had to drink close to a dozen more cups that night. The bubbles reminded me of soda and the taste reminded me of the bread of a sandwich just about to go stale. Not terrible but not something I would seek out voluntarily. Thank God I changed.

And that was my first beer. Fast forward to my “now”, January 2011. I’ve graduated college. I still live in Maryland but not in College Park anymore. I have a job despite this terrible economy. At this point in my life, I live with two guys, each one about ten years older than me. They have jobs and I moved in with them because I assumed older guys had their shit together and didn’t PMS like some of the girls I lived with in college. I was right about one of those things. Age, as I’d later figure out during the course of this year, is just a number. It’s what you do with those numbers, like the lottery, that make all the difference.

Single men in there thirties love beer. When I moved in, there was a decent collection of what I deemed to be good beer in the fridge. This meant two things—it wasn’t an aluminum can and it cost more than $7 for a six-pack. At this point, I was drinking beer if it was offered to me, but I wasn’t buying it unless I was planning to drink with my guy friends. I remember loading 5 bottles of Shiner Bock with me as I moved out of College Park and feeling my father’s quiet glance of questioning concern as I packed up my fridge. Those Shiners lasted three days in the fridge as my new roommate Clyde assumed they were my other new roommate Alex’s and downed them during the course of an evening. Five beers in one evening, at this point in my life, seemed remarkable.

I noticed they were gone that morning, but magically they were replaced that night. I joked about the presence of the beer fairy and Clyde apologized profusely for this. I figured he was skittish about the presence of a 22-year-old outgoing (told you I'd get rid of the quiet) female in his previously male living situation. Alex, who I shared the floor with, was an overly friendly beer drinker. He had the Beer Advocate bookmarked on his iPhone and tracked his beer consumption with the detailed precision of a Supreme Court stenographer. I asked him why he devoted so much effort to this record keeping and he informed me that he wanted to try 210 different beers in 2010. I was impressed. This was real skill. Sort of. Alex had a beer stuck to him the way Linus always had his blanket. Perhaps beer was Alex’s blanket. It is certainly cooler than carrying around a dirty blue rag and his tenacity made him fun at parties.

Maybe I wanted to fit in with my new male counterparts. Maybe I wanted to set myself apart from other girls. Maybe I was bored and maybe I was tired of drinking vodka cranberries every time I went out.  A cocktail of all these reasons was the impetus for my 2011 New Year’s Resolution: I, Sharon Rosenblatt, would try 100 new, never before had beers, in one year. The premise is simple. I must consume at least half of one beer I’ve never had before in my life. I can have different beers from the same brewery. They can’t all be from America. I must try to get as many as I can on first dates to avoid paying for them. I must hit 100 new beers by December 31, 2011. I must start this on January 1, 2011. Failure, as they say, is not an option.

The following 100 chapters are anecdotes of the moments I can remember and those that I wish I didn’t focused around where I was, who I was with, and what (and sometimes who) I was doing was when I drank that beer. I tried my best to capture how I was feel then without tainting it with my feelings currently. I wish I had enough discipline to write as the events were happening but let's face it, I was too busy drinking. Obviously, people change. You fall in and out of love. Like beer, what tastes good one night is a terrible hangover  the next day.

Sometimes I don’t remember everything and chapters are shorter. Sometimes I remember too much. As The Office’s Jim Halpert mocked fellow character Andy Bernard, the phrase rings triumphant with a new truth:  “Lord, beer me strength”.